The Stalk

Bowhunting helped form the mentality, somewhat preparing me for my early excursions to the Letort and Falling Spring, but stalking trout was different. I will never forget my first vision of Letort Spring Run, thirty-two years ago. It was September, and I was fresh off a weekend of instruction from two angling legends: Ed Shenk and Joe Humphreys. I had purchased Ed’s book, “Fly Rod Trouting”, and read along during the evenings at Allenberry. I simply had to visit the stream that Sunday afternoon!

Shenk recounted the Bonny Brook meadow as his favorite reach since childhood, so there was little question where I would start my limestone spring education. I waded through the head high grass in the meadow until I came to flowing water. The stream was tiny, winding over and through lush weed beds and the intertwined trunks and branches of trees long fallen into the flow. The small, open rills of bright water sparkled as I crept near, gently enough I thought, quickly surprised as trout darted from bright gravel to weedy darkness. How in God’s name can I fish this?

The learning curve was steep, but I travelled to Carlisle as often as possible the following spring and summer. I fished at the hand of The Master and began to absorb the mindset of the hunter with rod and reel.

Those years were remarkable, and the lessons learned upon those gentle limestone streams have served me well throughout my fishing. I stalk trout as a matter of instinct now, whether angling in tight quarters, or wading wide expanses like the Delaware.

In summer, the hunter’s craft comes into its own. The great hatches of spring are diminished, and the wild trout are beset by low water and a blazing sun. They must eat, their metabolism demands it, so they hunt stealthily to take best advantage of what Nature provides.

I spent twenty minutes yesterday simply getting into the river to search for trout. Twenty minutes from first footstep off the bank to in position for the first cast, and I didn’t move either upstream or down. I have always admitted that fly fishing taught me patience.

Watching, making a few casts to test the known lies – is he there? Forty-five minutes, perhaps an hour, and I am twenty yards down river. The water quivers ahead of me and I tense my grip on the rod: there!

The cast drops lightly four or five feet upstream and I squint to watch the drift – yes, right there, six inches off the bank…

The ring is subtle, smallish, but the spotted warrior is betrayed by the morsel that attracted his attention! Surging, racing out into the flow, the rod has formed that lovely parabola as the line cuts through the water, and the reel spins with his power. He makes his runs at a distance, reacting each time I take a few turns on the reel handle, unwilling to surrender to the unseen pull affixed to his jaw.

The arch of the rod takes it’s toll on his strength at last, and he comes nearer, long and bronze, he turns when he sees me looming, but this run is shorter, more easily checked. At last, he makes the final turn before the net is submerged, but darts away when I draw him near. Once more he takes some line and then, he comes to me.

Two feet of glistening bronze and gold writhes as I twist the hook free, dip him beneath the surface, and grab my camera from the wader pocket. Released after the shot, he glides to the bottom nearby and rests. I give him a few minutes, then step closer so he darts away, and we both return to the hunt.